Chapter 113
The story rewinds slightly—around the time Liberta and the others were fighting the human-faced tree in Norridge.
In a certain back alley of the royal capital, a lone man walked.
His name was Ares, an adventurer.
His public reputation was… less than stellar.
An A-rank adventurer who preached justice yet groveled before nobles while mocking commoners.
The only reason he could swagger around so brazenly was his A-rank strength and the backing of noble authority.
A man who acted on whims and forced his emotional tirades on others—no one could possibly like him.
Yet, despite his usual self-righteous demeanor, today he moved like someone avoiding prying eyes. He slipped smoothly into the alley, turned left and right at random to shake off any potential pursuers, and finally entered a shop at the last corner.
"Kept you waiting?"
The shop was a dingy bar.
A counter with only five seats.
Behind it stood a frail-looking man lazily serving drinks, the place far from bustling.
"Ah, your guest is waiting in the back."
But behind those disinterested eyes lurked a suspicious glint.
The men at the counter paid Ares no mind, silently sipping their drinks, occasionally reaching for the nuts set out as snacks—nothing more.
Their attire was that of ordinary townsfolk, giving the place the air of a rundown hideout, yet it exuded an unsettling aura.
Unfazed, Ares headed deeper inside.
Just as it seemed he would pass through a door marked *No Entry for Non-Staff*, he crouched, slid his hand into a hidden groove in the floor, and lifted—revealing a concealed staircase.
A passage leading underground. Without hesitation, he descended.
The stairs were narrow, barely wide enough for an adult to pass without brushing the walls.
And dark—so dark that he had to grab a lantern from the side to see his way down.
Something was off.
Everything about this place whispered that whatever lay below was anything but legitimate.
Yet Ares descended without pause.
At the bottom, a hallway led to a single door.
"Five gold coins, three silver coins—now, how many copper coins?"
A masked man stood before the door, posing the question.
"The bribe for the gatekeeper of hell is a heart." "Kihihi, pass through."
The code matched. The man knocked five times on the door and stepped aside.
"Ah, my apologies for the wait, *Count*."
Grabbing the doorknob, Ares stepped inside and cheerfully greeted the waiting figure.
"I told you to call me Dores here, did I not?" "My bad, my bad. The sudden summons had me slip up." "Hmph."
The man addressed as *Count* was cloaked in black robes, a lantern-bearing attendant at his side—but the hood obscured his face even in the dim light.
One thing, however, was unmistakable: his foul mood.
"You seem to be enjoying yourself. Having fun? Playing the righteous hero?"
The sarcasm-laced words dripped with open disdain for Ares' tardiness.
And Dores—the false name of the man who knew Ares' true nature—deliberately chose the phrase most loathsome to him.
It took Ares only seconds to react.
"...Ah."
The image of the cheerful young man shattered, replaced by a grin—unnatural, yet somehow fitting.
Like a crescent moon.
"Absolutely *disgusting*."
He spat the word *justice* out like venom.
"Ahhh!! I regret taking this job more than anything!! Just remembering it makes my skin crawl!! Itchy, itchy, *itchy*!! Even saying it myself gives me hives!!"
He clawed at his own skin, nails digging into his cheeks and forehead—until his face *warped*.
"Whoops, almost tore my face off there. Close call, close call. I still need to use this a bit longer, gotta take care of it."
Had he gone any further, he might have peeled his own face apart.
"Dores-san, be careful. That word’s taboo for me, you know?" "Hmph. You knew what I’d say, yet call it taboo? Ridiculous." "Seriously, why does everyone cling to that word? *Justice*—nothing but an excuse humans use to justify their sins."
Muttering *close call*, he adjusted his face, fingers reshaping the distorted features.
With no mirror, the process was grotesque—like watching something inhuman reassemble a human mask.
A *thing* wearing a person’s face.
That was the only way to describe Ares now.
"Do they *want* to be righteous that badly? Slapping their own arbitrary values onto the world, declaring themselves *just*, then strutting around like that gives them free rein? And that *justice* shifts on a whim! Pathetic. Disgusting." "Is this your autobiography? You’ve been stirring up quite the spectacle lately." "Oho, got me there. In the eastern continent, they’d hand you a cushion for that one. Want one?" "Try handing me something you can’t even produce." "Oof, another point to you. I’ll prepare one for next time."
One moment, he was seething at the mere mention of *justice*—the next, cracking jokes.
A complete shift in demeanor.
As if the mask had fully slipped.
Or perhaps—was this even Ares anymore?
"Enough. Get to your report. I don’t have time for this."
Dores knew exactly what lurked beneath Ares’ facade.
But he didn’t press. The conversation moved forward.
"Right, right. The job’s going smoothly. Infiltrated the western duke’s request like your superiors wanted, sabotaging Duke Edelgard and the royal family while tarnishing the western hero’s reputation. Satisfied?" "I can’t judge without details." "Fine, fine."
The thing wearing Ares’ face finished adjusting its features, resuming the guise of a pleasant young man before flopping carelessly into a chair.
"Basically, I’ve been provoking fights all over the western region. Pretty words for the ladies, hostility for commoners, groveling for nobles—played the perfect lunatic. Made quite the mess of their hunting grounds. Should put a dent in the western duke’s plans, no?" "Likely. Inviting the western hero to this continent was folly, but with groundwork laid, it becomes possible. And whoever secures the western hero’s support gains considerable leverage."
Such disrespect toward a noble would normally be unthinkable.
Yet no one reprimanded him.
No—they *couldn’t*.
Dores merely furrowed his brow. His attendant stayed silent, hand never straying toward the dagger at his waist.
"The western hero, huh?"
At the shift in topic, Ares’ demeanor shifted again.
Madness? Or sheer delight?
"*She’s* wonderful."
He spoke as if he’d met her personally.
"Earnest, pragmatic, yet desperately chasing her dreams—struggling with everything she has to make them real."
He knew her gender. Her face.
Even her personality, to an extent.
"And when she’s fought and clawed her way to the brink of achieving them—"
The more he spoke, the more his face twisted.
A grotesque, euphoric grin.
"*Crushing* her will feel *divine*!"
The words were vile.
"Ahh, just imagining it excites me!" "Hmph. When I heard why you took this job, I thought the same—what *taste* you have. Trampling another’s dreams." "You nobles do it so often you’ve gone numb, haven’t you?"
Sarcasm met sarcasm.
A direct jab—*you nobles crush commoners’ hopes daily*.
No attempt to hide it, grinning as he deliberately provoked.
"Mindlessly stomping dreams like some chore—where’s the artistry in that? If you’re going to crush someone, pour your *entire being* into it! Really *savor* it! Tsk, nobles—can’t live without dragging each other down, can you?" "You’ve quite the mouth. Greased well with fat, I see. Would it burn nicely if I lit it ablaze?" "Save the street performances for your guards. I don’t have time for that."
Even faced with open hostility, Ares didn’t flinch.
Leaning back in his creaking chair, hands behind his head, he smirked.
"My motto is, *Only those who enjoy life truly win*. Wasting time on dull things? I’d rather die." "And if you don’t do those *dull* jobs, you can’t earn your keep. So you’re already dead, aren’t you?" "You don’t get it. *This* is necessary too."
A meeting meant for reports had devolved into mutual barbs.
This was the only way they could converse.
A noble who scorned commoners.
And a deranged soul who despised the mundane.
No future where they’d ever see eye to eye.
"The more obstacles, the better! What value is there in dreams achieved through an easy path?!"
The Count had zero interest in Ares’ ranting.
"She *needs* suffering, setbacks, conflict! Those are the spices that season her dreams!! And the euphoria of overcoming impossible odds—*divine*!!"
Ares gestured theatrically. The Count watched with undisguised disdain.
"Creating artificial hurdles? How obnoxious. Are you a child pulling pranks to get your crush’s attention?" "*Exactly*!! That’s what makes it perfect!! I *love* her—that’s why I give her trials! So I can crush the radiant growth she achieves by overcoming them!! Because I *know* she’ll prevail—and I *want* to see it!!" "What you’ll earn is hatred or murderous intent." "*Perfect*!! Any emotion directed at me is *love* in my eyes!"
A twisted love.
Had the king of this land heard his selfish reasons for destabilizing a continent, he’d have struck him down on the spot.
"That’s why I took your job. I may have… overdone it in the west. Needed a cooldown. But even from another continent, I can test her. Playing double agent—serving the western duke while fulfilling your superiors’ wishes—suits me *just* fine." "Hmph. And for that, you wiped out an entire A-rank party. Necessary?" "Absolutely. The original owner of this face was quite entertaining. A kind-hearted youth who believed in her dreams, vowed to walk with her. Had he been stronger than me, I’d have gladly let him kill me."
As he spoke, Ares rocked his chair gleefully.
The Count exhaled through his nose, arms crossed, enduring.
"But they weren’t strong enough. So they died. So I *took* this. They aimed for the southern continent to expand her dreams—but never set foot here. Clinging to *justice* led to their ruin. Defeat in the eyes of the world. Had they ignored that word, they might have fled—survival’s basic instinct. But no. *I’m evil, I can’t allow this*—how *hard* they fought." "That’s normal. In the underworld, your epithet is infamous. Eliminate the threat—even beasts understand that logic."
Only Ares found this enjoyable.
To the Count and his guard, it was pure torment.
A wanted man they’d never face voluntarily—only by their superiors’ orders.
Had Liberta heard that name, he’d have grimaced.
A named character infamous even in FBO.
Among players, the motto was:
*If you’re low-level, flee without hesitation.*
*If mid-level, flee desperately.*
*If high-level, kill on sight.*
Loathed like venomous vermin.
A figure so reviled that guides explicitly warned:
***Never raise his affinity.***
Technically recruitable, but with *no upside*—a walking disaster.
"Hey, *Jester of Mad Delights*."
A named character… with no name.
Only an epithet that spread through the game.
"Kihihihihi! Want to try killing me too? You could do it *in the name of justice*?"
A twisted grin, his trademark.
A mad genius who schemed solely for his own amusement.
A villainous named character said to possess *a hundred faces*—impossible to find unless he *wanted* you to.
A calamity.
The kind where the community’s advice was:
***If you don’t want to meet him—don’t draw his interest.***
"I’d need more lives than I have to deal with you." "Pity. You lack any spark worth crushing, so I’ll pass."
This twisted farce—evil masquerading as justice—had only just begun.